thomas h. smith aka t. kilgore splake | one book

25022010

Poetry Dispatch No. 314 | February 25, 2010

ONE BOOK

bythomas h. smith
akat. kilgore splake

in march of 1979 i was camping in michigan’s upper peninsula “pictured rocks lakeshore” area and warming myself over the coals from last night’s fire. nursing a heavy-duty hangover and drinking the first coffee of the morning i wrote my first poem in a green-covered 4”x6” notebook. suddenly this burned out college professor with a failed marriage and captive to demon rum ethers had become a poet.

i have spent much time wondering over what a poet is, as well as seriously doubting if i qualified to be a poet. in order to hide my real self, i borrowed the kurt vonnegut character kilgore trout and developed the pseudonym t. kilgore splake.

with this new role as a poet, i quickly began using my creative imagination to write more poems describing the great variety of different human behaviors. no longer was i tommy smith following what my mother, father, and society demanded of my life, but a new man in the process of reinventing my “self.”

arriving in the poetic arts late in my years, i tried to make up for the time lost to other writers. i published several chapbook collections of my poetry with “angst productions” press. in 2009, i decided it was time to write my personal memoir. my the winter diary would define who i was and in my remaining few years describe what i was hoping to accomplish.

while reflecting on the life and times of tom smith, i felt like a visitor to the douglas gordon “24 hour psycho” show at the museum of modern art held in new york city in 2006. the hitchcock movie was slowed down to two frames per second, making a viewing nearly a day long event. thus, i found that reviewing my life in slow motion allowed me to take a harder look at the many things that happened to me.

any author writing a memoir has to decide what things to reveal as well as the personal history that will be left out. in the winter diary i did not talk about running away from home to join the navy during my senior year in high school at three rivers, michigan. i also chose not to tell of drunkenly opening beer bottles on the back bumper of my pickup truck while driving through canada to maine one spring. indeed, a “dui” in a foreign country with my summer thorazine prescription would have been quite a personal detail.

stephen elliott, author of the adderall diaries said a memoir must have perfect sentences, tension, honesty, and cannot intentionally lie. i believe that my the winter diary meets his literary requirements. however, to prevent a possible lawsuit or two, i did alter a couple of names and dates in the book.

after receiving several compliments to the winter diary, i think that walter mclaughlin, editor of wood thrush press in albans, vermont, summed up my writing best. walt said:

“i spent an entire afternoon with TWD, to my own surprise. not what i had planned to do. but, it caught me just the right time, when i needed something whacky, offbeat, yet very real.

you are a nut, no doubt about that! no need for you to look over your shoulder-normalcy lost sight of you long ago. and that is the best compliment any poet can receive from another.”

it seems a shame that when many poets pass away their voices and works are forgotten and quickly vanish. in the last couple of years i have lost three close writing friends: cait collins, editor of “the hold,” dave christy, editor of alpha beat soup, and the nationally known cab-driving poet dave church. i truly hope that someone is saving copies of their writings in literary archives so they won’t disappear.

my the winter diary covers the details of my life, and also has several splake poems in the commentary to emphasize my history of becoming a poet. following the 2009 publication of the winter diary, i discovered many additional thoughts about the life and times of tom smith, and published the winter diary notebook.

what might be called the splake-smith memoirs, volume iii, my manuscript “lost whispers” is currently getting a take-no-prisoners-parsing from a couple of close writing friends. in the late spring or early summer of 2010, i hope to publish “lost whispers” as an extension of my personal writing history.

the early morning poem i wrote while camping in the “pictured rocks lakeshore” area gave me a new life as well as provided me with a fresh creative vision. as i have grown intellectually, i find that now i exist outside the mainstream of modern society. i no longer feel any necessity to be treated as “one of them.”

with the discovery of my poetic epiphany and writing itch, i definitely agree with baron wormser who said: “this is it. this is who i am. this thrills me. whatever this poetry is, i want to live there.”

t. kilgore splake | painting by Henry Denander taken from the book The Poet Tree (Kamini Press) Please click the image if you are interested in buying this book.

Yet another example of one of those high road writers who stay under the radar & I would never have run across but for Blei’s curiosity and spirit. Tramping through the high country of the Keweenau in this guys wake (both of them), energy and ideas rampant, was one of those once-in-a-lifetime events … thanks for bringing it all back to mind this similar, sunny winter morning.

I would lay light that his work
Unpaving a road through Door County
Will whisk dust up for young writers to come to
Find voice and camp there in their own
With a conciousness of no concilliations,
Follow their bare bones loosening the bullshit
To fit this new world that frighteningly forgets the old.

Prose man, poet blender.
Sender off to the world
His great working gifts.

A prescence lifted from Illinois
Took the flyway of Lake Michigan
And buillt a nest as eagles do north
Where all can be seen from.

Perched in his coop to
Sway swoop down on any day.
Craft steeped like how-ever old-he is whiskey.
You can smell it on his breathway-
The truth.

Honor to the deep in shallow politics.
He is editing our time,
The anger all behind a voice of sweetness.

Plow the road.
Like that crazy crooked county road
That hauls all to the landing across from
Washington Isand.
Jesus, who platted that.
Only one who can laugh along the way.

other Norbert Blei web pages

Please click the arrow to see the complete list of writers on Poetry Dispatch & other Notes from the Underground, then click a writers name to see all entries. The number next to the writers name indicates how many postings belong to this category.

Please click the arrow to see the complete list of writers on Poetry Dispatch & other Notes from the Underground, then click a writers name to see all entries. The number next to the writers name indicates how many postings belong to this category.

The coop has flown

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Norbert Blei | 1935 – 2013

On the back roads of Door County again

Norbert Blei – 2012

Photo by Bobbie Krinsky

Norbert Blei – 2012

Photo by Jeffrey Winke

Norbert Blei – 2011

Photo by Sharon Auberle

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